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After three days at Wealdan Castle, Timothy was starting to learn his way around. He knew which wall panels concealed doors and stairways for the servants. He knew how to get from one side of the palace to the other using the hidden interstitial floors. He had been down to the cellars to see the big water tanks and the evil-looking brass pump tower, which kept the fountains of the Palm Court flowing and sent hot and cold water to every bath in the castle. He’d even had a glimpse, very briefly, into the royal apartments, when he’d been on his way up one of the servants’ stairways, and an underbutler had come through from the queen’s parlor carrying two empty wineglasses.
Timothy spent a lot of his time going up and down stairs. Sir Halvor had been given a smallish room up on the sixth floor, which was nowhere near as nice as the big suites on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. But Halvor was pleased just to be given accommodations in the castle. They had been at the Crown and Shield before, and a lot of senior officers had to sleep in their tents outside the walls, because there was nowhere for them in the city.
Timothy wasn’t quite sure why the royal chamberlain had seen fit to give Halvor a room, but he suspected it had something to do with the lord high treasurer’s inquiry into the finances of the Erstenwell Abbey. Halvor had taken an interest in the case, and Timothy had a notion his master was providing secret testimony now. He had no idea which side Halvor might be taking in the dispute, but to his mind, it wasn’t really any of his business, anyway. He simply had to make sure Halvor had his bath and clothes ready, and make sure the cooks at the castle knew how Halvor liked his food.
There was a big party for May Day, and late in the evening, as the celebration raged around them, the servants went to the kitchens to eat whenever they found the time. Timothy lingered, sharing a pint with a handsome under-cook. Things seemed to be going well, until the fellow mentioned his wife, and suddenly Timothy’s evening promised to be much less exciting.
Around 10:00, however, there was a sudden commotion as the king’s steward and chamberlain, along with the housekeeper, all came down, faces red, eyes wide, to speak with the kitchener and the cook.
“A day’s notice is all I ask,” the chamberlain was muttering. “One blasted day. But of course they’re Immani, so what do you expect?”
It didn’t take long for the mystery to be revealed. Even before the senior servants’ conference was finished, a rumor went around the kitchen like lightning. The Immani were sending a new diplomatic legate—an ambassador—to the Gramiren court, and his excellency would be arriving tomorrow.
“It’s a bit rude to show up like this, practically unannounced, don’t you think?” Timothy said to the handsome under-cook.
“Well, the Immani don’t much like the Gramirens,” said the under-cook with a shrug. “And in any case, they did give us half a day’s notice.”
In the morning, there was a rush of activity as the castle staff cleared away the detritus of the May Day party and started setting up for the ambassador’s arrival. Timothy lent a hand here and there, moving tables and taking out trash, just for something to do. Sir Halvor had been very drunk the night before, and Timothy didn’t expect to see him up and about before noon.
There was some confusion for some of the guests, though, as the king’s chamberlain decided that an Immani Diplomatic Legate required one of the castle’s better suites. That meant evicting an earl from his room, which led to a kind of avalanche, as senior nobles bumped junior nobles out of their rooms, and junior nobles bumped baronets and knights out of theirs. Luckily, Sir Halvor was already in such an undesirable room that he was allowed to stay right where he was.
Timothy was therefore free to hang around the kitchens and hear the gossip. Some people talked about the party the night before—who had ended up in whose bedroom, and such. But mostly people talked about the Immani. Everyone knew the Immani favored the Sigor dynasty over the Gramirens. But perhaps the Empire had decided to be practical and recognize the Gramiren claim, instead. It would be a huge boost to morale to have the largest, richest, and most powerful nation in the world on their side, instead of on the side of the enemy.
At the same time, a lot of people remarked on what had happened the last time the Immani had taken an interest in Myrcian affairs. A devious Immani sorcerer named Faustinus had convinced the late King Edgar to invade Loshadnarod, and the result had been a long and bloody war that had accomplished nothing in the end. Timothy’s uncle had died in that war, and he had grown up hearing people in Basington talk about what a stupid waste it had all been. That war was the main reason why the Myrcian people and nobility had turned their backs on the Sigor dynasty and given power to the Gramirens, instead.
A lot of the servants in the kitchens said their masters and mistresses were leery of getting too close to the Immani. “You have to remember that the Immani are always looking out for themselves,” said one old baroness’s chambermaid. “They’re your friends exactly as long as it suits them, and then they forget about you.”
But for all this pretended indifference or apprehension, when a message came up from the royal dock, saying that his excellency had landed with all his retinue, everyone at Wealdan Castle, from dukes down to stableboys, was animated with giddy, nervous excitement. It reminded Timothy of a girl waiting for her suitor to arrive. Everyone dressed in their finest clothes. Sir Halvor made Timothy polish his riding boots three times before he was satisfied, and while Timothy was busy with that, the big knight went into the hall and paced back and forth, muttering under his breath. Timothy thought he could make out words and phrases in Immani. Halvor seemed to be practicing his greetings, just in case.
Far below, the chamberlain rang a bell four times, and everyone rushed for the stairs. The crowd spilled out of the Palm Court and into the castle grounds—everyone wanted to see this new legate. Halvor stood with the senior knights. Timothy made his way to join the servants, who were lined up near the chancellery, scrubbed raw and dressed in starched linen.
At the far end of the castle hill, a gilded red carriage swung into view. It was led by a squad of Immani legionnaires in their bright armor and red capes. And it was followed by three luggage carts and a small army of servants in gold livery. A lot of the Myrcians were intrigued by the soldiers, or by the gold eagle banner at their head. Or by the carriage itself, which seemed likely to collapse under the weight of all the carved embellishments and gilding. But Timothy watched the servants. They were all marching in step, both men and women—something no Myrcian noble would ever have expected his servants to do. No Myrcian noble would have thought his servants capable of it.
Duke Lukas appeared on the castle steps in blue-enameled armor to welcome the ambassador. The king and queen were back in the throne room, waiting. It was beneath their dignity to come out and gawk like common folk.
The carriage stopped, and a tall older man in a gray tunic emerged. He looked around suspiciously. Then he spotted Duke Lukas and smiled. It didn’t seem like a very sincere smile to Timothy, but then diplomacy wasn’t his job.
After a moment, as the duke and the legate exchanged pleasantries, another passenger emerged from the coach—a girl. She was slim and rather shorter than average, dressed in gold and silver silk. She kept turning this way and that to take in all the sights. Her eyes were wide, and her pink lips were turned up in an excited smile. When she saw Duke Lukas in his blue armor, she let out a little gasp, and when her father led the way into the castle, she lingered on the front steps, head back, gawking at the famous towers and glittering dome of Wealdan Castle.
“I bet that’s his mistress,” said Timothy’s friend from the night before, the handsome under-cook.
“Shame on you,” snapped the second assistant housekeeper, standing a few feet away. “Don’t you know anything? That’s his daughter. She’s barely 16, from what I’ve heard. Dorea Talia: that’s her name.”
The under-cook was unimpressed. “The man brought his daughter? I bet I know what sort of ‘diplomatic mission’ this is going to be.”
This provoked a storm of outrage from some of the lady servants nearby. The head kitchen maid put her hands on her hips and said, “If you’re going to be impertinent, go somewhere else. I’ve heard the poor girl’s mother died two years ago. Of course she’d come here with her father. Where else would she go?”
But Timothy thought the under-cook probably had the right idea. And so did a great many of the other servants. Most people seemed to think the Immani were hoping to marry Dorea to Prince Broderick. Others said maybe she was supposed to marry one of Duke Lukas’s sons. In either case, it seemed like a good sign—as if the Empire really was ready to reconcile with the Gramirens.
Further evidence of Immani goodwill came late that evening, after the welcome feast, when Lady Dorea’s lady’s maid came around the kitchen, handing out invitations to a party for the servants, to be held at the legate’s expense in the festival pavilion next to the castle.
Timothy was sitting by the kitchen hearth, dozing off, when he felt someone tap his shoulder, and he looked up at a tall, pretty girl with black, curly hair. “Here’s your invitation,” she said, pushing a sealed piece of paper at him.
He read it. “What sort of party will this be?” He had an image in his mind of some very formal and awkward dance, with all their masters and mistresses looking on condescendingly.
“It’ll be fun. Trust me.” The girl held out her hand. “I’m Callista, by the way. And you are?”
“Timothy. I’m—”
“You’re Sir Halvor Ingridsson’s valet. Yes. I know. That’s why I’m inviting you.” She leaned close, and for a second he could have sworn she was going to kiss him. Then she pulled back. “If you come to the party, I have some friends I think you’ll enjoy meeting.”
First, of course, Timothy had to ask Sir Halvor’s permission. But like most of the knights and nobles at the castle, Halvor entered into the spirit of the thing and said he thought the servants’ ball was a fantastic idea.
“Remember anything you happen to hear from the Immani servants,” he said. “It might be a good opportunity to get some information about their intentions.” Then he stopped himself, laughed, and clapped Timothy on the shoulders. “But above all, have a good time.”
When Timothy arrived at the festival pavilion, he found the place packed with servants and soldiers. There were tables set out, and a big buffet down one side, but most of the vast space was given over to dancing. A troupe of minstrels stood on a stage at one side, playing popular dance tunes from Myrcia, Annenstruk, and the Empire.
The Immani servants mixed freely with the Myrcians, but Timothy rather quickly noted some differences. The Myrcians, with some exceptions, were trying to act like lords and ladies. They were bowing and curtsying and dancing formally in their best livery. The Immani, on the other hand, were dressed in tight silk or gauzy robes and were behaving with no respect for any sort of social propriety. Worse, they seemed to be doing their best to drag the Myrcians down to their level. One of the first things Timothy saw when he arrived was the lady’s maid named Callista up on a table, dancing very, very close with some young kitchen maid from the palace.
Things were even worse—or better, depending on one’s point of view—in the dark corners far from the big brass lamps. Timothy was pretty sure he saw at least three couples having sex. “I ought to be offended by this,” he thought, “but I’m not.” In fact, as he stood and surveyed the decadence, he wondered if maybe he’d been born in the wrong country.
The song ended, and Callista jumped down from the table to welcome him. “I’m so glad you came! I’ve got someone you have to meet.” She turned and shouted, “Milo!” over the rumble of conversation all around them. There was no response. “Milo!” she repeated. “Honestly, he’s hopeless.”
She grabbed Timothy’s hand and led him through the festival pavilion. Along the way, they passed couples talking, couples dancing, and couples doing things no one ought to have done in public. Behind the punch bowl, for example, one of the king’s footmen was getting blown by an Immani chambermaid. Timothy was so shocked by the sight that he couldn’t look away, at least not until Callista tapped him on the shoulder again and said, “He’s over here. Come on now. You’ll love him.”
In a little angle formed by the buffet tables and the spare wine casks, a big man with sandy blond hair was seated, holding court with some of the sillier scullery maids from the castle. He seemed to be in the middle of some story about a trip to Turetania, but when Callista waved, he excused himself from his admirers and came over immediately.
“Timothy, this is Milo,” said Callista. “Milo, Timothy. I don’t really have any experience with these things myself, obviously, but I have a feeling you’re going to hit it off together.”
Up close, Milo was enormous—a great towering hulk of a man, wearing tight wool trousers. Timothy tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Did you want to dance?” asked the Immani man.
“With whom?”
“With me, obviously,” chuckled Milo. “I know it’s not the custom here, but no one will know or care what we do in this dark corner.”
The song the minstrels were playing was ending, but Timothy let the big Immani fellow pull him close as they danced the last verse together. At the end, Milo pulled him closer, and Timothy could feel the hardness pressing against him.
His mind leapt ahead, foreseeing what was likely to happen. “I think I know someplace we can be alone,” he whispered. There were lots of empty storerooms in the castle. Lots of dark corners in the servants’ corridors and interstitial floors.
“Perhaps later,” said Milo. “I regret to say I was about to turn in for the night. My master will be up early, and I can’t be too groggy.” Perhaps taking note of Timothy’s sudden look of dismay, he leaned closer and said, “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just can’t at the moment. I will see you later, though.” He started away, but then came back for a second to give Timothy a quick kiss on the lips.